


Sins of the Fathers

by evening_spirit



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Gen, case-fic, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case-fic, set in Season 3, shortly after Rossi joined the BAU - more precisely between "Penelope" and "True Night", so our dear Garcia does not appear, because let's face it, if she did, they'd have solved this case in five minutes flat. The story involves the whole team but is Morgan-centric.<br/>Morgan told Rossi: "I've got you figured out" and the old dog won't back out from such challenge. He WILL find out what makes Morgan tick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Fathers

**Disclaimer:** The characters and the universe of Criminal Minds does not belong to me.

 **Warning:**  References to Catholic religion. I hope I do not offend anyone, if I do, I apologize upfront.

 

***

 **Sins of the Fathers**

 **Teaser**

***

It was a rainy winter night near Washington D.C. The overcast sky prevented any moonlight shining into the cemetery and a man dressed in black robes considered it his blessing. He needed to do this, it was imperative. If he didn't, his soul would be forever marred by a deadly sin.

He carried a heavy body wrapped in a white cloth. Normally the cloth would stand out in the darkness of night, but amidst the rain and gloom and between the tall cemetery trees, the man believed he would not be seen. Only the tree branches creaking in the wind made his heart jump out of his chest. Only trees, no humans, no one to point a finger at him.

The chapel door was open as before. It screeched and the man stopped. He was scared and tired; the body was heavy. He had come this far though, so he had to keep going, he had to fulfill this last service to a dead boy. He laid the body on the floor before the altar and crossed the boy's arms over his chest, pulled out the small box and wetted his gloved finger in the holy oil. He shouldn't be wearing gloves for this, he really shouldn't. It pained him to have this barrier between his skin and the dead man's skin, knowing that the service was not as it should be, but he had no choice. He was well aware of what a single fingerprint could do to him.

He made a cross on the boy's forehead, whispering the words of the prayer, "Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit", and then touched his hands, saying, "May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."

The squealing pitch of the wind behind the closed door of the chapel announced the beginning of the soul's journey to its Father.

 

***

 **Chapter One - A Story of Two Boys**

 

***

 _"It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons."_  ~Friedrich von Schiller

 

***

Derek Morgan treasured his early-morning coffee. He treasured his late-morning coffee too and his afternoon coffee, and even the one in the evening, even though all regulations stated he shouldn't be having that one, like, ever. But morning coffee was the best. And not even because Starbucks on the corner was a great place to hone his skills at showing the ladies there - who he'd never see again - how much he appreciated their beauty. Today was no exception and perhaps that around-forty mother of three - probably difficult - boys (Derek may have peeked into her wallet when she paid for her coffee and seen the photo) would have a reason to smile for the rest of the day.

Smile. Derek inhaled the rich aroma of his espresso and smiled.

"You in a good mood, or what?" he heard Emily Prentiss' chirp as he walked slowly through the main hall of the FBI building, toward the elevators.

"No reason not to be in a good mood on a Friday morning." He turned to her and saw her smiling too.

Emily nodded. They both knew how precious those short moments of tranquility were. She pressed the button, calling the lift as they stopped. Once inside she pressed to button to their floor; Derek was too busy inhaling his coffee.

"So," she said as the lift moved. "Rossi."

"What, Rossi?" Derek furrowed his brow. Yeah, so Rossi was a new member of their team and he already managed to irritate them, surprise them, threaten them, help them, get under their skin and he obviously had a secret that none of the team out-profiled yet. Was that what Emily wanted to talk about?

"He's really that good." She watched him. They all knew the Legend of Rossi, one of the creators of the BAU.

"Looks like it." Morgan shrugged and sipped his coffee.

"You don't agree?"

"I didn't say I didn't agree."

"But you don't like him."

Emily Prentiss and her theories! The door of the lift pinged and she got out, Morgan a step behind her.

"What makes you think that?"

"He pegged you down with that priest thing, didn't he?"

"What do you want, Emily?" They were entering dangerous territory. Both metaphorically and literally; Derek didn't want to talk about his faith or lack thereof and most definitely he didn't want to talk about it in the bullpen!

"Just making small-talk, is all." Emily shrugged, waving at Reid who was already seated behind his desk.

"Yeah," Derek hissed, lowering his voice, "dragging out my system of beliefs in the process. What gives?"

It wasn't hushed enough. The good Dr. Reid heard the end of their conversation and had to add his two cents worth.

"Watch it, Emily. Seeing into Morgan's heart might burn out your eyes," he commented in his usual, Reid-ish manner. Normally Derek found his comments funny or even endearing but today they were a tad too close to, well, seeing into his heart.

Emily seemed to read his mind on this. She looked straight at him and pronounced: "Or rather him allowing us to see the inside of his heart would make it shrink and wither. Such a fragile treasure."

Derek couldn't remember ever being so grateful for JJ's usual, "Guys, we have a case!"

 

***

Unit Chief didn't partake in his teammates banter. He used to. Hell, Aaron Hotchner used to be a regular team-member but he couldn't remember how long ago it was. These days he wasn't even jealous that they were chatting and joking and poking holes in each other's sides, except that things with Haley were deteriorating faster than an unsub on a spree and Aaron couldn't catch up. He could use a break. He could use a friend.

JJ ran through the bullpen, waving a stack of folders which unmistakably meant they had a new case. Hotch was at the door to his office even before the liaison climbed the stairs to the gallery; his team followed suit. They gathered in the briefing room and there was no trace of teasing on their faces anymore. They were all serious and focused.

"It's in the D.C. area." JJ pressed 'play' on her remote. "Two teenage boys were found in a cemetery in Fairfax. One of them - Glen Tolbert," the picture of a smiling, fair-haired boy appeared on screen, "seventeen years old, the one found a month ago - lived in Fairfax, Virginia. The newest victim - Nicolas Escarra," another picture, this time of a darker, Hispanic boy, turned up, "fourteen, lived in Washington, Columbia Heights area. Police from D.C. were involved and they called in the FBI. What links those two boys is that they were both found in a cemetery chapel, arranged like this:" The picture displayed bodies neatly dressed, combed, with their hands crossed on their chests and turned, legs-first toward the altar.

"Is this a sign of remorse?" Rossi sighed almost with awe.

"But what remorse!" Morgan was more straightforward. "I've never seen anything like this! You say they were in a cemetery chapel?"

"That's right."

"Ready for burial!"

"Except that they had to be processed by forensics first," JJ observed. The person who prepared the bodies obviously didn't take that little detail into account.

"Creepy." Emily's face was a picture of disgust. "I don't know if seeing something like this doesn't creep me out more than seeing the body mutilated and dumped in a trash can."

She had a point. Hotch had to agree that killers who felt remorse were that much more difficult, because those who didn't - could simply be considered inhuman. Hotch thought about something odd - if it really was a killer who placed the bodies there, because Morgan was right, they'd never seen remorse of this magnitude. The killer would have to go to great lengths to arrange something that.

"How were they killed?" the chief turned the discussion back on the right track.

"That's where the problem is." JJ pressed her remote again. "Glen Tolbert was hit on the head with a heavy object. Nicolas Escarra, on the other hand was stabbed in the chest."

"Different M.O." Rossi stated.

"But similar victimology," Morgan challenged. "They're both teenage boys. And if it was the killer who posed them like this, same signature," he had the same doubts as Hotch.

" _If_  it was the killer?" Prentiss on the other hand was surprised by this idea. "How could it not be? Who else would do something like that?"

"A good Samaritan?" Morgan shrugged. "Victimology may be considered consistent but M.O definitely not. As for the disposal . . . It's too weird. For all we know, someone could have found the bodies and simply given them a burial. Is that even possible?"

Rossi chuckled, "A serial Samaritan. How would you profile him?"

Morgan only glared at him in response.

"Technically," Reid cut in, "he didn't give them a burial. You need a priest and a Mass for that. It was a Catholic cemetery; there are certain rituals that need to be performed and he most likely didn't have the time, or the recourse to perform them. From what it looks, he merely prepared those bodies for burial. He brought them to the chapel and laid them inside, legs toward the altar. All that's needed is someone to conduct the ceremony now."

"Yeah," Morgan snorted, "and a coffin, and the family needs to know, and . . ." he waved his hands emphasizing how far from the real burial this thing was.

Emily worded his thought, "Which means he's deranged."

Rossi leaned toward Morgan. It looked almost like he was fencing with him. "He's also organized." Poked the file with evidence in front of him. "No fingerprints, no DNA, no one saw him dump the body and the police don't have a theory about where exactly the second victim was killed. Didn't leave any trace. Wasn't seen by anyone."

Morgan looked at him for a moment and shrugged. "How can you profile someone who's not a killer?"

"You can profile anyone. We can profile each other as we sit in this room."

"Which we don't!"

"Oh, but we do. All the time, subconsciously, even if we don't talk about it. You guys tried to profile me a couple of weeks ago." The older agent's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Hotch watched his minions look away in embarrassment.

"Which we got totally wrong, by the way," Emily was the one who attempted an apology.

"Which proves that profiling someone who's not a killer is more difficult," added Morgan. Then he returned to the case at hand before Hotch could call them on sidetracking. "Look, Rossi, if this was the killer, placing the body like this would be a sign of remorse, right? But if he's not a killer, there could be numerous motives behind giving a murdered stranger a makeshift burial. Without notifying the police - which suggests the person being asocial, antisocial, paranoid, delusional, maybe schizophrenic, or any other mental condition you can imagine - while leaving no fingerprints - and that points to him being fully capable. One rules out the other."

"Unless," Emily cut in, "it was the killer who gave them a burial, in which case it makes sense, because he couldn't notify the police, right?"

Everyone fell silent as Rossi smiled knowingly. He made them prove his point and return to analyzing the case. He was capable of co-operating with the team, Hotch had to give him that.

"We have two bodies," he started to sum up the brainstorming session. "Which isn't much to go by. We usually don't consider someone who killed twice a serial offender but these are children, we won't ignore that. Morgan, tell Garcia to search the databases for any crimes involving a cemetery. We don't have the second crime scene, right?"

"Unfortunately," JJ shrugged. "And . . . It's still Lynch in the tech room, Garcia is returning next week."

"Then tell Lynch," Hotch sighed. He had to trust that the other technical analyst was as good as their girl. "So, we have one, month month-old crime scene and a disposal site to determine his characteristics. We need to concentrate on victimology first. What connects those two boys, other than similar ages? Prentiss, Reid, you go to talk to the Tolbert family, Morgan and Rossi go to Washington." He really hoped those two would be able to work on the case side by side. He trusted that pairing an old-hand-Rossi with Morgan who was both confident and capable of compliance would benefit in restoring the balance of the team, still lurking, months after Gideon's departure. With Prentiss or Reid, Rossi still acted too authoritative. "You two talk to the Escarras. I'll go to the cemetery and the morgue. JJ, you let them know we'll take the case and set us up at the police station in Fairfax. We'll meet there."

***

 **Chapter Two - Different Similarities**

 

***

 _The thing that's between us is fascination and, whether you're a man or a woman, the fascination resides in our being alike_  ~Marguerite Duras

 

***

Initially, David Rossi hadn't planned on staying in the BAU. He'd had unfinished business. He'd wanted to close that case from twenty years ago. He had thought he wanted to return to retirement afterward. He hadn't counted on meeting those enthusiastic young people, full of energy and determination, who reminded him of how he used to be. He hadn't thought he still wanted to be like this.

But he did.

They were apprehensive about him, he could tell even if he wasn't a profiler. They wanted to learn things about him without outright asking and they had skills to do it. He had those same skills and he wanted to get to know them just as well. The one right next to him, driving the car . . . What was it he said? "We don't profile each other." Rossi wondered how it was possible that the members of this team weren't using their knowledge and observation techniques on their team-mates.

They drove in silence for almost ten minutes while the older, experienced agent was observing his colleague and Morgan was getting more and more twitchy by the minute. His long, slender fingers were thumping the rhythm of some unidentified song coming from the radio and Rossi realized Morgan's hands were never still, not in the briefing room, not during interviews. Not now.

"So, you don't like being profiled, do you?" he finally asked the question that was rattling inside his head for quite a while.

Morgan turned to him, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

"Do you?"

Ah, reverse question. Rossi could play that game.

"I don't mind. I consider it a learning curve. It's fun too, plus you get to know more about your colleagues." What will he do about that?

"Is that right?" Morgan asked, now staring ahead at the road. He changed the grip on the steering wheel to something more solid, but his fingers still performed their little dance. "Hmm, let's see. You were married three times, wonder what's behind that?"

Rossi chuckled. He couldn't say he was surprised by this reaction.

"Defense by way of attack," he commented. "Interesting."

Morgan shot him another glance. "What's interesting?"

Really, this boy was way easy.

"Do you remember how you said you had me figured out?" Rossi smiled at Morgan's almost frightened expression. "That I'm no mystery to you?"

"Are you saying you got  _me_  figured out?"

"Oh, no-ho, I'm not nearly that cocky." This was going to be fascinating. "But I will."

 

***

The Tolberts' house was the color of goldenrod with darker strips between the windows. There were still flowers - or rather wilted weeds - in the bowls; Reid recognized verbenas, calendulas and geranium. Actually, the correct name of the latter was pelargonium, while geranium was the botanical name of a separate genus of related plants often called cranesbills.

Reid stopped to wonder if it was important. If Gideon or Hotch would consider what kind of flowers were cultivated in this house as significant. Probably not.

"Your badge, Reid," Emily whispered into his ear and pressed the bell as he fumbled with his credentials.

"Yes?" A slender blonde woman opened the door.

"Agent Emily Prentiss, Dr. Reid," Emily introduced them. "We're with the FBI, I believe Agent Jareau called to let you know we were coming.

The woman opened the door wider without a word and walked toward the living room. Reid absentmindedly scanned the walls on their way - they were pale yellow. Right next to the door a coat-hanger on the right, mirror on the left. Next, diplomas and sports trophies of Glen, Laura, Tamara and Susan Tolbert exposed on the wall behind the coat-hanger, opposite from the double-door entrance to the living room. A small, round carpet - new, not tarnished in the slightest on the newly-polished wooden floor - lay in front of the living-room. The stairs leading to the upper floor were also wooden and a pair of curious and maybe frightened eyes vanished behind a corner the moment Reid looked up. A girl, eight, maybe ten years old.

Prentiss was in the living-room already, shaking hands with a tall, dark-haired man.

"Hello!" The man said, extending his hand to Reid in a greeting. "My name is Michael Tolbert, I'm . . . was . . ." he stuttered, "Glen's father. Please, have a seat. Is there anything new in the case? Have you found the guy who did this?"

Reid left talking and reading the father's facial expressions up to his colleague and instead, focused on the furniture which was nice, not new but well-kept. The tables were clean, photographs on the shelves aligned almost obsessively, books in the cabinets arranged from the largest to the smallest. He noted there were no religious symbols, at least in the public area of the house.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tolbert, but no," Emily explained as she took a seat. "We came because there has been another murder and we believe they may be connected. Nicolas Escarra's body was found in the same chapel as your son's, two days ago." She handed the stunned father a photograph of a smiling and still alive Nicolas. "Have you ever seen this boy?"

"Uh," Michael Tolbert rubbed his chin, glaring at the picture. His brow furrowed. He stalled; Reid could tell the question made him uncomfortable. "I didn't really know Glen's friends all that well." Perhaps he was even ashamed. "Marie?" He hurriedly gave away the photograph to his wife and she barely cast a glance at it before giving it back to Emily and shaking her head. She never met Emily's eyes and she was half-turned away from Reid.

"Are you sure?" Emily tried to pressure the woman. Apparently she saw the reason behind it, too bad her plan backfired.

"I really don't know what's the point of you coming here," Marie Tolbert uttered, staring at her hands, her bitten fingernails in stark contrast with how well-kept the house was. Her face was partially obscured by her long, tousled hair. She looked about ready to explode. "We told the police everything we knew, ten times over. I'd like to simply be left in peace."

Reid froze, glaring at her. Lack of cooperation on the part of the victims' family was rare. However, given the time that passed and that there were still no results of the ongoing investigation, it could make the mother lose her trust in the justice system. He felt there was more, though. Almost obsessive cleanliness of the house but lack of self-caring? He had seen this.

"Marie, they are trying to find the killer." The husband apparently still believed. He sat next to her on a sofa and tried to put an arm around her trembling shoulders. She shook him off and jumped to her feet.

"So?" she screamed. "It won't bring Glen back. I just want to move on, you know?" She turned to Emily and Reid. "I just want to keep living, I have three other children! I just want it to be over!"

"It won't be over until they find his killer!" Michael stood up as well.

Emily tried to get between them but it was already too late.

"Fine!" Marie spat. "So you talk to them! Don't forget to lock the door on your way out!" With that she stormed out of the living room and tumbled up the stairs.

Emily gaped after her for a moment then turned her dissecting gaze at Michael. The devastated husband ran his hand through his hair. Shrugged. Looked at the two agents with an apologetic smile. Reid analyzed. He didn't seem all that surprised. Perhaps he was used to apologizing for her behavior. Was she really the one who kept the house clean? She said she was ready to move on. After only a month! This was too short to give up and everything in Reid recoiled at the thought that a parent could forget about her child that soon. He knew though, it was not impossible.

The two profilers waited for the father to recover.

"Sorry about that," he said finally and gestured for them to sit back down and flopped back on the sofa himself. He then proceeded to explain sheepishly, "I don't live here. Marie called me to come in when you told her you were coming." He scratched the back of his head. "So what do you need to know?"

All those gestures were clear indicators of the man's discomfort; Reid could read body language when he took to it. Not instinctively like Morgan, Hotch, or Emily but he had enough knowledge. Emily sat opposite from Michael now; a little bent toward him; looked him straight in the eyes even if he didn't quite reciprocate. This was always the most difficult part for Reid, even after all these years. Harder than shooting, tackling bad guys or interrogating the craziest psychopaths. Maintaining eye-contact - especially with distraught victims or their families. So he didn't interfere with Emily's course of action, didn't even fidget and after a while Michael relaxed a little, took in a breath which made his arms rise and fall. This was the moment to start asking. Reid cleared his throat.

"We understand that Glen was alone at home that day, is that right?"

"Yes. Marie had taken the twins to their friend for a birthday party and Suzy went with them. They are all girls and you know what it's like, the youngest wants to hang out with her sisters." He stopped, shot a quick glance at Reid then at Emily. "Glen was almost seventeen, you don't consider that underage, right?"

"Mr. Tolbert, we're not accusing you of anything," Emily assured the distraught father. "We're simply trying to re-create the facts. Where were you at the time?"

"I, uh, at my place. As I said, I don't live with them, moved out about two years ago."

"Oh." Emily leafed through the report. Of course, police didn't note such facts; it was solely the BAU domain. A father not living with the family, it was another interesting piece of the puzzle of the Tolberts. Emily read from the file: "The police considered it a robbery but there were no signs of a forced entry and nothing was taken out of the house."

"Only Glen's car."

The car was in the garage and the report stated that there were drag marks from the hallway to there, so obviously the killer took Glen's body into the car to dispose of it. The car was never recovered.

"Could we take a look at the hallway? Where it happened?"

It was all they had that could go by as a crime scene. The father entered it with his head bowed and arms crossed on his chest.

"There was blood all over." He indicated the new floor. "Marie repaired it."

Erased the horror of her son's death. Wanted to move on.

Reid looked at the diplomas and the trophies. At least, no one removed Glen's achievements from the wall, although back in the living room Reid only saw one photograph of him, with his sisters, while all the girls had more than one picture of them decorating the place. He took a step forward.

"Was anything else changed?"

"The walls were repainted."

Reid picked up one of the trophies. It was heavy.

"The police didn't identify the murder weapon, did they?" he asked Emily.

"No, all the autopsy report says is that it was a 'heavy object'." She looked up at him, realization clear in her eyes. She took the trophy from him without a word.

Reid noticed the father's eyes go wide and blood drain from his face. He looked about ready to collapse.

"No . . ." he breathed out.

"Let's get back to the living room." Emily quickly grabbed his elbow and led him to the sofa. He was unsteady on his legs.

"I can't believe . . ." he muttered, "We look at it every day . . . it's not possible!"

"Please, Mr. Tolbert." Emily sat opposite from him and grabbed both his hands. "It is possible, but it's not determined if this was what he used. We will need to take the trophies for forensics, with your permission." There was a small, very small possibility that there would still be some traces of blood, although this lead was most likely far-fetched.

"Marie," Michael choked out. "It's Marie's house."

"We will ask her permission then. Now, Mr. Tolbert, we need to ask you a few more questions." The profiler waited for her witness to calm down but Reid thought that there was nothing more to be gained from this conversation, despite Michael nodding that he was ready. Emily didn't seem to believe him either but she still asked, in a low, compassionate voice. "What kind of a boy was Glen?"

"I'm afraid I won't be of much help to you." Michael sobbed. "Glen and I barely talked; he blamed me for leaving them and for tons of other things, I don't even know about. I was working a lot all his life, going away every now and again, sometimes for weeks at a time. I don't know. I really don't know anything. I would like to know who did this and why," he cried openly now, "but I can't give you any clues, can't help you in any way. I'm not a good father. I was never a good father . . ."

Emily squeezed his palms and his tears wet her fingers and both her and Reid knew it was all they would have, all they would know about this boy. Reid wanted to feel compassion for the father but his priority was Glen and instead, he felt angry. At a father who was never home, at a mother who probably cared more about her daughters than about the boy, to the point that she didn't care if his killer was punished. Yes, Glen was almost an adult and it wouldn't be fair to demand that someone was with him at the house at all times, still . . . Reid felt like he understood the kid. He was probably a surrogate father to his sisters and a surrogate husband to his mother. And now he was dead.

***

 **Chapter Three – Confessional**

 

***

 _"People don't come to church for preachments, but to daydream about God"_  ~Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

 

***

"It's because he stopped going to the church with me," Nicolas Escarra's mother, a round, plush lady in her forties didn't cry, though she clung to a crumpled handkerchief.

"When did he change?" Morgan asked. He sat opposite the woman and looked her straight in the eye.

He tried to sound quiet and compassionate as she was opening up before him.

"When he changed schools, I guess. A few months ago. Maybe last year. It was gradual, you know? I didn't pay enough attention." Tears were threatening to fall again but didn't.

"It's not your fault, Ma'am." Morgan touched her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong, you raised your son as best as you could. He simply happened to meet the wrong person at the wrong time."

"That's it too!" She suddenly livened up, pointed her finger at the FBI agent in front of her. "He was meeting all those wrong people, you know. Those boys, they are in senior grade of his school and they are bad news. Maybe it's them?" The agitated mother looked from one agent to another. "People say they are dealing drugs and stealing and Nick started to hang out with them."

"Ma'am." Derek pulled her hand down, grounded her. "We'll check all the possibilities. But right now I would like you to tell me more about Nick, alright? Can you do that for me? You told the police that you weren't worried at first when he hadn't returned from school, that you only started to worry when he still wasn't home in the evening-"

"I should have-"

"Was he often out in the afternoons?"

"Yes." Mrs. Escarra looked up as if suddenly relieved. "Yes, he was always out! I mean, usually he would first return from school, leave his backpack, maybe eat something and then go. He would hang out with Matthew - that's his friend - or . . . well, I don't know with whom, those . . . boys," she said the word as if it was a curse, "most likely. Earlier, he would go to the practice at the church choir but he stopped going there too."

"Did something significant happen in his life a few months ago?" Rossi cut in. Morgan almost forgot about his presence, now the voice, the inquiring tone of the older agent grated on his nerves. "It would be some major transformation, possibly even traumatic, which would affect him, inspire change in his behavior."

Mrs. Escarra furrowed her brow looking up at him. "His father died," she shrugged. "But it was six years ago." She returned her gaze to Morgan. "It had changed him. Before then, he was a joyful child, friendly, outgoing. After Peter passed away, Nick became withdrawn, kept to himself. I think he still had a few good friends but . . . he wasn't the same." Her face suddenly twisted in anguish. "Now I have no one!" she sobbed.

"Ma'am, please." Morgan needed her to keep talking to them. He thought there was something in it, something more and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was as if his profiler's sixth sense kicked in, although he did not believe in such crap. For him, profiling was a scientific method, no mystic visions or gut feelings. "Just a few more questions." He waited for her to wipe her eyes clean although they were dry. It was as if she'd cried out all her tears and had none left. Finally she nodded. "Did anything bad happen in Nick's life recently? You said his father's death changed him and now he changed again. Do you know of anything that could cause that?"

"Puberty?" The woman shrugged. "He started being bold, mouthing off to me and to Father Charles. Then he stopped going to church and met those boys. It's them, it's their fault!"

"Who is Father Charles?" Rossi intruded again.

"He's our priest. I go every Sunday to Holy Cross Church. Nicolas used to go with me too and he sang in the choir but last year he stopped. I tried to talk to him. I asked Father Charles to talk him out of meeting with those bad boys, to show him the right way but Nick just wouldn't listen.

"You said he stopped going to church last year?" Rossi was on a roll. "It was before he changed schools, is that right? Before he met those other boys? Are they, like gangbangers, or something?"

"They will be gangbangers. And I think he met some of them last year. He had known Miki Sachs for years; that's for sure. Miki lives three blocks down. And he is bad news. Bad news, I'm telling you. Father Charles would tell you the same thing."

"Did Father Charles know Nicolas well?" Rossi asked one more question, exchanging glances with Morgan. The subliminal message was pretty obvious - they were going to visit the priest no matter if Morgan still resented it or not.

 

***

The cemetery was old, might be considered abandoned. Some headstones were covered in moss, others broken, bushes here and there and definitely no one to guard the place - at least, not before the first body was found. The police said that they had increased patrols in the area for about two weeks afterward but then they had been busy elsewhere and the place had been as empty as earlier when the unsub brought his second victim to give him that mockery of a burial.

He had to have known that he wouldn't be bothered here.

The chapel was nothing unusual - a small building with a cross on the wall, an altar and a few seats for the mourners. Cobwebs in the corners, dried leaves on the floor - looked as abandoned as the rest of the cemetery. Only the altar was cleaned, not a speck of dust on it and the brass figure of Christ was polished.

"Did you clear anything here?" Hotch asked the officer who brought him here.

"Just the body."

Hotch stared at the floor, trying to imagine the prone form of a dead boy laying there, the strength needed to bring him and pose the way the killer intended. To do whatever else he did with the body.

The profiler would probably learn some of the answers from the morgue.

"He was dead for a couple of hours before the sicko brought him to the cemetery," the pathologist, a middle-aged woman, explained to Hotch. "Look at how awkward his arms and legs are bent, he couldn't twist them exactly how he wanted because the body started to stiffen. He was hit here." She uncovered the boy's side where a hole gaped. The area around it was ashen. "Could have been a knife and I'd say the length was like a knife, because it was enough to puncture the heart, but for this bruising to form, he had to have been hit. There are broken ribs here too, so it was something heavy and the blow was delivered with significant force. I don't know, maybe something like a short rapier? I don't know if such things even exist. This length," she spread her palms, "but with a round cover for the hand. What else? Oh, I found traces of oil on his hands and forehead."

"Oil?" Hotch furrowed his brow. "What kind of oil, like from the car?"

"No, like olive oil. Edible oil," the pathologist fell silent for a moment and looked at Hotch meaningfully before adding, "Or one used for Last Rites."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not really familiar with the rite but I have seen a fair share of bodies in my life and have processed those after Last Rites too."

She may not have been familiar, but Hotch knew someone who could familiarize himself with any rite at any given time. He pulled out his cell phone and told Reid to get acquainted with the rites of the Catholic Church.

 

***

"Father Charles is cleaning in the sacristy but he will be with you in a moment," an older sacrist told the two agents. Then he turned and shuffled away to inform the priest that he had visitors.

Rossi watched Derek Morgan. The younger profiler didn't seem as uncomfortable in the church as he had a couple of weeks ago. Probably that prayer when his friend had been shot really helped.

"Are you at peace with God now, Derek?" Rossi tried to ask it in a kind way, a non-judgmental way but Morgan's head still snapped up and his eyes flashed with anger. Rossi lifted both his palms. "Mean no harm with this question. And I don't mean to dissect you, just . . . trying to be friendly." He smiled his charming Italian smile.

Morgan shook his head slightly and sighed. Turned his gaze to the altar, to the large cross.

"It's still touch-and-go," he said quietly.

A tall man with grayish hair and beard, wearing the priest's collar approached them.

"Welcome." He extended his palm first toward Rossi, then Morgan. "I'm Father Charles Trent."

"Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi, this is SSA Derek Morgan," Rossi introduced them both, flashing his badge. It seemed he would take the lead on this conversation.

"How can I help you?" Father Charles attempted a smile but his lips remained pursed, so the grimace looked more like a scowl.

"We have just spoken to Mrs. Escarra," Rossi started to explain, "about the death of her son. From what we understand she is your parishioner and Nicolas was one too. She seemed distraught by the fact that her son stopped going to church at some point. You were his priest, perhaps he had talked to you about his crisis of faith. What caused it? When had that happened?"

Father Charles looked at him, blinking for a couple of seconds then he shook his head as if waking up.

"Um. Yes, Nicolas stopped going to the church about a year ago. He . . ." the priest hesitated. He gazed at the floor with unseeing, large, blue eyes, still shaking his head. "I tried to help . . ." he muttered.

"Help with what?" Morgan cut in. Rossi cast a glance at his colleague and saw his brow furrowed, gaze intense. There it was, Morgan's animosity toward all things religious rearing its ugly head. Rossi hoped this conversation wouldn't turn unpleasant.

The priest looked straight into the agent's eyes and it was like punch-punch. The muscles of his jaw worked before he spoke.

"The boy was drifting away," there was sincere hurt in the reverend's voice. "From God. He was lost and his mother asked me to talk some sense into him. I tried but it was no good." Father Charles looked at the floor again, again shook his head and sighed. He squared his arms as if he was bracing himself for what he needed to say. "Even last Sunday, they came and I talked to Nick, but you see, when a boy is his age," he looked up, met Rossi's eyes, "there's no talking to him. They all think they know everything; they want to live their lives their own way. Sometimes they meet the wrong people and they make them stray."

Rossi was careful with phrasing the next question, "Are you suggesting that was the reason for his drifting away from the Church? His meeting someone who influenced him?"

Father Charles considered this question for a moment. Then he shrugged and once more shook his head.

"It's what his mother seems to think. Poor woman. She lost her husband and now her only son." Father Charles paused again. He shuddered. "She came to me yesterday, requesting a burial for Nick. As soon as the body . . ." he fell silent but Rossi knew what he meant. As soon as the coroner would give the body back to the family.

The priest wasn't young, he must have seen his share back in the days but he still seemed shaken by the boy's death. Probably because he had a chance at turning Nicolas from the path of destruction and didn't manage to do it.

Before Rossi got to ask what he and Nick were talking about last Sunday, Morgan cut in again.

"Have you buried Nicolas's father too?" he inquired, hoping maybe that the priest's recount of that event would shed more light on Nicolas's change back then. It was a good question too.

"Oh, no. No, I took over this parish about four years ago. Mrs. Escarra and Nick were two of the most devoted parishioners and I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I hope you'll find whoever did this to the poor child," he added. "If you'll excuse me, I really need to finish working in the sacristy before the afternoon Mass."

The two agents nodded, they shook hands with the reverend and left the church.

"Something's on your mind, Morgan," Rossi proclaimed rather than asked.

"Something's not right," Morgan muttered. At his colleague's prodding, he elaborated, "I mean, c'mon, puberty? Meeting some guys? That's not enough reason to leave the Church, especially if you really are devoted."

"Are you being objective here?" Rossi had to ask that question, even risking Morgan's wrath.

But Morgan only stared, gritting his teeth. Then he shook his head. "No," he barked and walked away to the SUV.

 

***

 **Chapter Four - The Unknown**

 _***_

 _"All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them"_  ~Galileo Galilei.

 

***

Hotch and JJ were staring at the map in the conference room at the police station in Fairfax, Virginia, without coming up with anything useful re geographical profile. They had insufficient data and Emily didn't want to think what they needed to have enough. Reid was reading a book on the history of Catholic Church. He had memorized everything about all the rites already, from baptism to wedding ceremony in Latin and now was occupying himself with lighter stuff like The Inquisition.

"Did you know that Galileo Galilei was commuted to house arrest and weekly recitation of psalms?" he asked out of the blue.

"I thought he was burned at the stake." Emily's knowledge of XVIth century history was apparently lacking.

"No, that was Giordano Bruno. And many others, in fact-"

"They're here." Hotch interrupted Reid's probable lecture. Emily quietly sighed with relief. Oh, she loved Reid, just not longer than four hours per day and today she'd spent almost five with him. She would welcome any distraction. She had flipped through the files of cemetery burglaries but this was mostly pointless and didn't take her longer than thirty minutes.

"Okay, what have you got?" Hotchner cut straight to the case without as much as letting Morgan get his coffee.

"We spoke to Nicolas's mother and to his priest." Rossi suppressed a smile at the sight of Morgan's 'duh?' face and his longing look toward the nectar of the gods. He took a seat next to Reid and pulled out his small notebook in which he still wrote his observations. "They both think Nicolas got in with some bad guys and they killed him."

Hotch sat down too. He frowned and then nodded, staring at the autopsy report he brought with him but hadn't yet shared with either Reid or Emily.

"Police are already checking this lead," he said. "I don't think it explains Glen, however. Besides, there's a long way from battery and stealing to murder. I think it's a dead end."

"I agree with you."

Morgan, who still stood in the doorway, tore his gaze away from the coffee machine and instead glared at Rossi quizzically, "You do?"

This time the older agent couldn't help but chuckle. "You seem surprised."

"Well, from what you were saying earlier . . ."

"Subjective conclusions, based on your own experiences sometimes overlap with logical objective deduction." Rossi leaned forward. To Emily he looked like a teacher explaining that the Earth revolved around the Sun to a student who wouldn't believe it without proof. She wondered what those two had argued about today. "You simply need to be able to determine which is which."

Silence fell for a moment as Morgan absorbed the message. Hotch was the one to break it.

"What about the Tolberts?"

Emily decided it was her turn.

"We didn't get much from Glen's family," she started, as Morgan finally took a chair and planted his ass on it, temporarily forgetting about his precious coffee. "His father says he barely knew the boy, had worked a lot, and was away from home all the time. Didn't know Glen's friends, didn't know what he liked or didn't like. His mother wasn't much better; she basically said that she wants to move on, has three other children and she left the room. They are currently separated."

"This actually tells us a lot," Reid picked up, contradicting Emily. "We can guess that Glen had to basically raise himself. His mother probably was as disinterested in him when he lived, as she is now. His father, he said it himself, was never there!" Oh? Emily didn't like how involved Reid seemed right there. On their way to the police station he had said he knew what it was like growing up in a home like this and she thought he was over-exaggerating a little, losing objectivity. "This was a boy who had to take care of himself. On the day of the murder he was alone at home-"

"Hey!" she decided to cut in. "He was seventeen, you can't expect parents to babysit a seventeen-year-old almost grown-up man."

"I do not. What I'm saying is that he was used to being alone, he didn't feel threatened by this situation. So when the unsub knocked and requested to be let in - Glen did let him in. The man probably wasn't threatening."

"Or Glen knew him," suggested Rossi.

"Either is possible right now," Hotch nodded. "Reid, continue."

"Well, Glen may have known the unsub, or - the unsub didn't come in with the intent to kill Glen. This might have been someone . . . nice. The autopsy report says that the boy was hit with something heavy and there were heavy sports trophies on the wall in the Tolbert's hallway. We took them for forensics; I expect a report any minute. If this was the murder weapon, then it's obvious that something happened during their conversation, which prompted the killer to . . . kill Glen."

"That's all speculation for now." Hotch furrowed his brow. Apparently, he shared some of her concern for Reid's objectivity and Emily was silently grateful. She didn't like them taking those trophies from the Tolberts' house. The very idea that their son might have been killed with something that decorated their walls was too difficult to stomach for the family and it would haunt them now ceaselessly, because she doubted they would get a definite 'yes or no' answer.

"It makes sense, though," Morgan took over in turn. "The killer is disorganized, opportunistic. He uses the weapon he finds on the site, doesn't carry it with him. He doesn't intend to kill and he regrets it afterward but once set off, he can't stop. The kills are personal, so he either knows his victims, or they do or say something that makes him angry enough to commit murder. Catholic cemetery suggests his affiliation with religion so this could have been about that. We know Nick may have argued about faith."

"I don't know about disorganized," Hotch shook his head. "He seems to be planning at least some of his moves. He dumped the bodies in an abandoned cemetery. It was not by sheer luck."

"So he kills in rage but then sobers enough to cover his tracks," said Morgan. "He's intelligent."

"And he may have had previous encounter with law enforcement," added Hotch. "Police, army, or criminal record. The way he kills, especially the second kill, aiming straight for the heart - suggests some medical knowledge. He knew exactly where to hit to cause the least blood flow and immediate death."

"And the religion angle," reminded Rossi.

"He's deeply religious," Hotch agreed. "He might be some sort of an activist. Definitely knows his way around Catholic rites. The pathologist found traces of oil on Nicolas's forehead and hands, so we may presume the killer performed Last Rites on him. Is that right, Reid?"

"Actually, no." Reid surprised Hotch and everyone else with his answer. "But hear me out. It gets even better. Last Rites is the common name for  _Exaquiae_ , a ritual performed on the dead. No oil is used for that ritual. Instead, it is used for  _Anointing of the Sick_ , which is not a ritual performed on the dead but on the living who are about to die. Which sometimes . . . they don't. You know, a person may be deadly sick but recover and often it is allotted to the rite which supposedly saves-"

"Reid!"

"Yes! Right! Well very, very rarely  _Anointing of the Sick_  is performed on the dead but it needs to be very shortly after death. Now, what's really interesting about those two rites is that  _Anointing of the Sick_ allows absolution, while  _Exaquiae_  does not."

"So?" Morgan furrowed his brow. "Does he, like, grant them passage to Heaven?"

"Exactly."

"Does he consider them some sort of sinners?"

"Apparently he does," Hotch said grimly.

"Then we need to rethink our interpretation of the signature," Rossi almost stood up. "It's not about remorse, it's almost like it's his mission! He talks to that kid who has a crisis of faith and for him the only way to save his soul is by killing him and performing a ritual which will absolve him of his sins!" The older agent looked at all his colleagues and Emily was kind of freaked out by the spark in his eyes. He glared at her longer and she felt shivers crawling up her spine. "Do we know what Glen's opinion was on religion?"

Oh. That. "No," she shook her head, sighing. They really didn't get anything from the parents.

"Actually," Reid contradicted her again and she wanted to smack him. "I noticed there were no religious symbols or books in the house, not even a Bible. So we may safely assume they were not religious."

"We hadn't really seen their private rooms-" Emily tried to argue but Reid wouldn't let her.

"When people are religious they usually manifest it in a more or less noticeable way-"

"Reid," this time Hotch cut in. "Everyone. Their religious beliefs aren't that important at this point. We can't go into too much detail yet. We have a basis for a preliminary profile." He attached a piece of paper to the board which neatly summed up their conclusions:

 _\- Young male victims._

 _\- No overkill – quick and efficient._

 _\- Long cooling-off period._

 _\- Possibly knew them or friendly enough to evoke trust._

 _\- Aims for main organs – brain, heart – medical training?_

 _\- Military or paramilitary experience – able to find weapon._

 _\- Opportunistic – finds weapon on site?_

 _\- Mission based – need to absolve sins._

 _\- Affiliation with religion._

"Could he be a priest?" Emily asked, although even she wasn't convinced.

"We can't either validate or renounce it at this point," Hotch shook his head. "We can't get biased. But I think he's rather a devoted believer, a priest wouldn't want to  _force_  anyone to believe, they have other ways to encourage faith." He looked around his team, "I think we need to step back now, get some rest. We'll meet tomorrow morning at Quantico, add some final strokes to the profile and present it to the police here and in Columbia Heights." He noticed Morgan shaking his head. "Something on your mind?"

Emily wondered if he wanted to express some suspicion concerning the priest he and Rossi had interviewed earlier but it was the opposite.

"I don't like that we're concentrating on the unsub so much," Morgan observed, twisting the pen in his fingers. "I mean, look at the victims. Why those boys and not, say, middle-aged women. Don't they have a crisis of faith?"

Rossi had an answer to that, "Perhaps he sees himself in them? When he'd been younger and had committed sins he wishes someone absolved him at any price."

"He looks like a former gangbanger turned religious zealot to me," Emily reckoned. "We should throw all this at Kevin: medical training, army service or criminal record and affiliation with religion in later years. He might be a registered activist. It's worth a shot."

"We need to expand victimology," Morgan added brusquely. "I, for one, want to find out what changed Nicolas's view on religion. I know, Rossi, that you think I'm grasping at straws here but hear me out. He hadn't told his mother, he hadn't told his priest, but he had to have told  _someone_. Let's go talk to his friends."

"That's a good idea." Hotch looked at his watch. It was only five p.m. "Emily, you and Reid should also talk to Glen's school colleagues. You may ask about his view on religion. It's Friday afternoon so school doesn't start until two days from now - have Kevin provide you with the list of names and home addresses of kids from Glen's class."

"We have Nick's best friend's address here," Morgan poked at his file. "At least, the kid claims to have been Nick's best friend in an interview he'd had with the police but Nick's mother mentioned him too. Apparently he had been the last to have seen Nick alive."

"Good. Me and JJ will talk to some of Glen's friends then, along with Emily and Reid. After we're done, go home. Our unsub has a long cooling-off period we don't need to rush beyond reason. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

***

 **Chapter Five - Talk to Me**

 _***_

 _"We cannot pass our guardian angel's bounds, resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs"_  ~Saint Augustine

 

***

Matthew Villa's mother didn't want to let them in at first.

"He's already been through enough," she reasoned. "He told the police everything he knew and that's that. I don't agree."

"We're with the FBI, not the police," Morgan attempted to explain but she wouldn't let him.

"That's even worse! FBI or CIA, I'm not letting you torture my boy again so you may hear the story for yourselves!"

"There are things the police didn't ask which may help us find Nicolas's killer."

"I don't care!"

"Well, I'm sure Matthew does," Rossi stepped in and it was a perfect shot. Morgan watched as the mother's eyes widened, her mouth opened and closed over some unvoiced words. She pulled the door an inch wider.

"He blames himself," she admitted quietly.

"I believe we may help with that." The older agent kept pushing and Morgan watched him with fascination. There, right there, he realized there was so much to learn from Rossi. He read the mother like an open book; he knew exactly which buttons to push. "If Matthew tells us something that will help us catch the killer, it will absolve some of his guilt. He's not really guilty and I believe we may convince him of that."

"He isn't guilty," she nodded eagerly. "I mean, how could he have known?"

"Of course, but we need to convince  _him_  about it, don't we?"

The door was flung open all the way.

***

Matthew's room was dark, the drapes closed and no lamp lit. Matthew's mother turned the light on and a thin, small fourteen-year-old boy squinted at the intruders from the bed.

"These gentlemen are from the FBI, Matt. They want to talk to you about that day . . ." her voice faltered. "About Nick."

"I already told the police everything," the boy whined.

"It's alright, Matt." Derek took a chair and sat on it, facing the kid. "We won't push. But perhaps you'll remember something new. We may try and help you remember, if that's alright." In the background he heard Rossi requesting the mother to leave them alone with Matt and her trying to disagree with it. Eventually she consented, when she believed they had no intention of harming her child.

Morgan looked around the room, searching for an inspiration. There were  _Spiderman_  and  _Superman_  posters on the walls. "Did Nick like those movies too?" he asked.

"Nick  _was_  like one of them," Matthew blurted in response.

"How so?"

The kid sat up, ruffled his hair. Took his glasses from the night table and put them on his nose. Stalled.

"What do you want to ask?" he said eventually, not looking up at them.

"I want you to tell me why you think Nicolas was like a superhero," Morgan told him in a serious voice. He didn't have to play that part, he genuinely wanted to know. He needed to know Nick as well as his best friend knew him.

Matthew looked up, disbelieving. Naturally, he couldn't believe that this adult, this professional FBI agent would want to hear about superheroes or some other childhood fantasies but Derek held his gaze and he knew that the boy would realize he could trust . . . Matthew sighed.

"It's silly . . ."

"Nothing is silly," Morgan tried to validate the kid's dreams.

"When we were younger," Matt started abruptly, stumbling on words. "Like in grade school, kids used to laugh at me all the time. Not Nick. He never did. And then, one day, we were in the fifth grade, he just stood up to those guys and told them to leave me alone. We've been friends ever since, he really helped me all the time."

"Do you know why he did that?"

"Because they were mean to me." This was not exactly the answer Morgan needed. He wanted to see  _Nick's_  motivation and no child ten, or twelve-years-old cared so much for their peers' comfort to save them at the risk of getting hurt themselves. He would have to dig deeper.

"Was he bullied too?"

"Nick? Never! Everyone liked him, guys and girls and he could be friends with anyone. But he chose me."

Morgan felt a pang of impatience. He wanted to smack the kid upside the head, he was so self-centered! But he needed to stay objective and - more importantly - sympathetic. Before he managed to ask another question, Matthew started talking again.

"You know, whenever something was bothering me, he would just come to me and ask, 'what's going on? You can tell me.' And I would talk, just like that to Nick, like to no one else. And you know what? I keep waiting for him to come through that door and ask me why I'm sad and I would tell him it's because my best buddy was killed and I was the last one to see him and I don't know nothing that could help with catching the bastard who did this!" his voice was rising with each word and those last ones were screamed. As he realized this, he deflated suddenly. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay, kid." Morgan found a spark of compassion. "You did nothing wrong, you need to remember that." The conversation didn't move naturally in the direction Morgan wanted it to go. He had to push it a little; he had to see if it wasn't a mistake to come here at all. "Were you ever at the church together? Did you discuss religion?" he asked.

Matthew shrugged. "Nick used to sing in that choir but I was never good with songs. My mom says an elephant stepped on my ear and besides, I have asthma, so singing . . ."

"Nick, Matthew," Morgan couldn't stop himself. He needed the kid to focus on the main subject of their discussion. He could assume that the boy was avoidant because thinking about his friend pained him but Morgan thought that Matthew was always like that. Concentrated on himself. Nick would ask him one question and he would talk. About himself. He wasn't the person Nick would talk to about his demons, if there was anyone  _at all_.

"He was Catholic, I think," Matthew all but confirmed with a shrug. "That choir was at Holy Cross Church, it's a Catholic church."

"We know." Derek sighed. There was one last thing he could ask but he didn't really expect any constructive answer. "He stopped singing, though. Do you know why?"

"No," Matthew shook his head. "You think it's my fault? He liked it and I was always whining that he had to go and we can't play PSP. You think that's why he gave it up?"

Damn! Morgan was rarely getting frustrated with a witness, with a child on top of that! He needed his cool back; thankfully Rossi came with a rescue right this moment.

"He didn't really talk about himself," he asked. "Did he? Kept to himself."

"Yeah," Matthew nodded.

"It was hard to get anything out of him."

"Exactly! I tried!" Matthew reacted intensely. He almost jumped up and Derek wanted to stop him for a second, slow him, calm him down, but then he let the words roll. The kid needed just that, an emotional reaction. He needed to start feeling it all; his pain, his loss, in order to get over what happened and in order to help them. He was speaking quickly, loud and with fervor. "I really did but he would always turn the question around, so it was about me. I mean it! I feel like such a shitty friend because I didn't know anything about him and I didn't even ask where he was going so I don't know where that bastard got him!" This was what the police asked him about and true enough, this might have made him feel guilty as hell.

Matthew was sobbing, tears streaking down his cheeks and Morgan grabbed both his hands. Now was the time to direct him. "Whoa!" he said. "Easy there!" He was vaguely aware of Rossi dealing with the boy's worried mother behind his back. "Easy now. Let's backtrack a little." Morgan brought to mind what he had read in the interview transcript. This was a place to start, alright. "You two were on the bus from school, right?" Matthew nodded, sniffing. "Were you riding this bus together every day?"

"Yeah."

"What were you usually doing on your ride home?"

"Nothing." Matthew shrugged. "Talking."

"What about?"

"Stuff." Morgan watched with desperation as the boy's involvement was diminishing He needed Matthew to start remembering! He waited as the kid furrowed his brow in concentration. "School, teachers, homework. Girls. Movies, games, you know, stuff." Good.

"Was this day any different?" Quietly, so as not to spook him.

Matthew gaped at Morgan for a second and realization struck.

"Yeah."

"How?"

"He was quiet," Matthew started slowly but then, again, it was as if a dam broke. A flood of words. "He wasn't talking much. Actually, he was like this for a couple of days. Even last Sunday. He came to me and we played PSP, like always. But he was different. You know, I argued with my sister and my mom took her side, as always. I was upset. Not a big deal but he would normally ask me about it and he didn't. It was like he wasn't even there. Then he asked, 'If you didn't want to play this game with me, you would have told me, right?' It was a weird question, you know. I thought he didn't want to play, but he said it's not about that. I should have asked, should have prodded, but I didn't. I don't know, maybe you're right. I guess, even if I tried he would have just made a joke, he would distract me. That was one time. Then, on Wednesday, during the lunch break, he said, 'I'm going to talk to him. I'm going to tell him I didn't want it.' And then other kids came and we couldn't talk. That's all."

Morgan listened and he wished he had Reid's eidetic memory because it was as if words were flooding through him; half of them didn't even register. He had that picture emerging in his head but the image was skewed. It wasn't right. He usually had been better with remembering witness statements and deriving conclusions.

"There," Rossi said from behind his back. "You remembered something." Morgan looked up and saw his soft smile. At him and at the boy. "This, right there, it may be very important."

"It may?" there was all hope of the world in the kid's voice.

"Absolutely," Rossi nodded.

Right, Morgan thought dimly, they had an answer to one question - Nicolas Escarra definitely knew his killer.

 

***

The talks with Glen Tolbert's school colleagues weren't very fruitful. Emily and Reid were supposed to interview two kids but ended up talking to six of them, because the answers from the first four consisted mostly of, "I don't know, wasn't hanging out with him really". Eventually they were directed to James Rudd, a kid who played in a school band where Glen was the vocal and spent a bit more time there, mostly listening to hard rock cacophony and waiting for Rudd to find the lyrics of the only song Glen had written - with no luck whatsoever.

JJ and Hotch went to interview two of Glen's teachers.

"I remember this boy," Martha Kellerman, an older vivacious lady told them. She was teaching German and had a German Shepherd who growled at JJ. "Are you afraid of dogs, sweetheart?" JJ simply wished the lady closed the damn dog in the other room!

"No, it's alright," she said instead. "What do you remember about Glen Tolbert?"

"Oh, he was always a troubled child. In his freshman year he was suspended three times. I think it was because his father left the family about that time. Glen was often at the school counselor's office and I remember they talked about this. He was acting up." This was more or less what the other teacher, the P.E. one had said. "I have to say though, that Glen was improving lately. His grades were better and I was hoping he would even go to college. He had a real musical talent, this boy. Too bad he got into it with that troublemaker Rudd. Darling, are you sure you're not afraid of dogs?" Ms Kellerman inquired again. "Apollo can sense fear, you know? All dogs can and they tend to be more aggressive toward people who are afraid of them."

JJ smiled. What was she supposed to say? That seeing a woman's body eaten by the dogs and then fending them off for an hour, while your friend was being kidnapped and later almost killed should justify a little anxiousness?

Luckily, she didn't have to say that to Hotch. The chief thanked the teacher for her help and they quickly got out of that house. Only out on the street JJ realized she was shaking.

"I'm sorry about that, Hotch," she muttered. "Looks like we didn't learn much because of me."

"We learned enough. I'm going to ask Kevin to get us some additional info on Glen but we'll do it tomorrow," he furrowed his brow, thinking hard and JJ regretted it was her here with him. She was not the right person to talk to about all this, she didn't interpret the victims and the unsubs the way her friends did and she knew Hotch needed someone to bounce off some ideas.

She saw him reaching for his phone but before he grabbed it - it rung!

"Yeah, Rossi?" he snapped into the receiver then listened for a while, his brows coming even closer together. "Did Morgan come up with this?" he asked in a soft tone, and JJ couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't want Derek to overhear, which was ridiculous if they weren't on speaker. Unless Rossi was, but she didn't think so. "Okay." Hotch barked cutting Rossi off. "We'll discuss it tomorrow at the BAU. Go home, both of you. Get some sleep."

JJ gazed at her boss but he only shook his head then drove her home, not uttering one word. She hated when he got worked up like this. She was always afraid he would pull a muscle from all this tension.

 

***

 **Chapter Six - Buried Deep**

***

 **IMPORTANT NOTE:**  This chapter is based on a concept that only Hotch and Gideon knew the ultimate finale of the Buford Case. In my opinion the rest of the team didn't have enough clues to figure it all out (e.g. they never saw how fiercely Morgan defended his privacy - only Hotch and Gideon were with him inside that cell). That's my take, bear with me. Another thing, if you don't like how I wrote Reid in this chapter, I do have my reasons and they are explained in another note at the end of the chapter.

 _***_

 _"Look within. Within is the fountain of good and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig."_  ~Marcus Aurelius

 

***

Sleep had never been a luxury Derek had in excess. He believed it had started after his father's death. Seeing his blood all over the floor and his dead eyes staring at the ceiling every night just hadn't been fun, so at some point he'd decided that sleeping was overrated. How it had ended he hadn't really remembered but it included his Mom crying and Sarah freaking out and some pills. They helped. But then Buford happened and dreams filled with sleazy touches and the scent of devoured alcohol hadn't been fun either. This time Derek had been wiser though, he hadn't stopped sleeping altogether; he had simply reduced hours spent in the pit. By the time he got to college he'd trained his body and mind to be rested after four or five hours, tops. Exercise, staying fit helped too. It was all about having enough oxygen in the system.

The BAU put him to the test once more as the horror of the cases mixed with suppressed memories. He'd had better times and worse times. The Nicolas Escarra and Glen Tolbert case proved to be one of the latter. He couldn't even  _fall_  asleep and that was rare. It usually happened after a string of nightmares, when he'd been exhausted and afraid of another one. Now - it was simply because he couldn't stop thinking about the conversation he'd had with Rossi after they'd left Matthew Villa's house.

 

***

"Morgan?" Rossi caught up with him on the way to the car and Derek realized his older colleague had called his name several times already. "What is it?"

Derek shook his head, not meeting Rossi's eyes. "Nothing."

"There's something on your mind." It wouldn't even take a profiler to see that, Derek thought bitterly. "Tell me."

How could he? He didn't even know what it was, not really.

"It's nothing specific," he muttered, fishing for the car keys in his pocket. "Just a hunch."

"Okay! Tell me your hunch." Rossi didn't move from the spot next to the driver's door, didn't go to take his seat in the car. Instead, they stood like this, awkward. "Isn't that what it's all about? We share what we think; we exchange our hunches and come up with the profile. Isn't that what Hotch calls 'team work'?"

It wasn't that simple. They needed to have a filter, not everything could be said!

"I don't know." Derek glared at Rossi. "It's not based on any . . . evidence. I need to . . ." he didn't know what he needed to do.

"Derek. Profiling is not about evidence." Rossi pushed, unrelenting. "It is, in fact, all about hunches. What's it gonna hurt?"

He didn't even really think anything! Why did Rossi assume that he thought something?

"I think . . ." he found his throat constricting, his mouth moving, forming words, his lungs pushing them out, carrying them straight to Rossi's ears. "I think Nick was sexually abused."

"Based on what?"

Damn! He shouldn't have said anything!

"A hunch! I told you, I don't know why I thought that!"

"It makes sense, though." Rossi still glared straight at him, dissecting. "He told his friend that he would go talk to  _him_ , that he would tell  _him_  he didn't want that." Morgan blinked. How had he not registered those words? Perhaps he had, subconsciously. "The abuser got angry and killed him. Glen? He was shy, his father was always absent. Good material for an abuser to exploit." Oh, that hurt! Like a slap in the face. Derek cringed and Rossi noticed, of course. "What is it?"

"Didn't like how you phrased it."

"Sorry." Rossi pulled out his cell. "I'll call Hotch."

Could this get any worse?

"We've come up with a theory." Rossi informed their chief, his eyes trained on Derek. "Actually Morgan did. What if those boys were sexually abused, they tried to stand up to their molester and the guy killed them?" There was a question asked on the other side. "Yes. But their behavior fits with that of a molested child, they -" he stopped abruptly, interrupted. Listened for a while and said, "Alright. See you tomorrow."

Derek only stared at him, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.

"Hotch told us to go home and get some sleep."

 

***

And that was that.

Derek had driven Rossi home, they hadn't discussed their hypothesis anymore, said goodnight and he'd returned to his place. He'd worked out a bit, took Clooney for a long run, watched a movie and tried his best to keep his mind off the unwanted thoughts but eventually he had to face them. In the dark, long after midnight, they refused to be pushed away anymore.

The worst was that he couldn't really justify why he had that idea. Yes, perhaps Matthew had said that Nick had said this but for one, Derek really couldn't remember. Oh, how he envied Reid his eidetic memory now! Besides, even after Rossi had reminded him what Matthew had said, the whole concept still didn't feel objective, didn't feel like a logical, unbiased deduction.

And he would have to explain it all to Hotch tomorrow.

It couldn't get any worse.

 

***

Three more, only three of them left. Maybe they understood by now, maybe they learned their lesson and understood the wrongness of their way. He needed to hurry. The police would catch up soon. He couldn't imagine that they wouldn't but maybe he had enough time to save those three souls. He didn't want them to die, no. He didn't want it to come to this. If they understood, like he had all those years ago, what a sin they were committing, he was going to let them live.

"Leslie," he waited for the boy on his bike to get a little away from his parents' home. He knew Leslie always went to see his friend before practice.

"Sir?" Leslie looked up at him. He paled. His skin was so transparent, delicate. No one suspected what was underneath that innocent skin.

"Get in," he told the boy, gesturing to the open door of his rented Toyota. They didn't have much time if he wanted to make it back for the practice.

"But I told Tony . . ."

Tony wouldn't notice. That's how they all were, careless, inattentive. By the time anyone would notice, he would already know the fate of Leslie's soul.

"Get in," he repeated with force. "Unless you want to go to your Mommy. You want me to go to your Mommy and tell her what a dirty child you are? How sinful?"

"No."

Good. "Then get in."

He threw the bike into the back seat and helped Leslie fasten his belt. Then he drove away.

 

***

Sometimes Rossi didn't like being so good at reading people. Like, right now, he thought it'd have been better if he hadn't taken up Morgan's challenge at profiling  _him_. The vague clues he'd gotten so far were rather disturbing and the experienced profiler knew it in his gut that once he dug to the bottom of things, he wouldn't like what he'd find there. It was too late to stop, though.

The team was gathering in the bullpen. It was eight a.m. on a Saturday so there were only a handful of other agents. Reid was getting himself a coffee and chatting with JJ. Prentiss joined them then walked away. Hotch emerged from his office and marched down the gallery to the briefing room. Derek was running late or . . . Not.

When Rossi came through the door to the briefing room, he heard Hotch's hushed, "Morgan, a word with you," and saw Derek get up from his chair with a surprised look on his face. They walked two steps away to the corner of the room, exchanged two sentences, Morgan shrugging and becoming more and more guarded, then returned to the round table as the others were getting in. Naturally, as if nothing transpired.

"Or it's because your blinking rate gets too high," Reid continued some random conversation with JJ and she laughed.

"Alright everyone, take your seats." Hotch brought his minions into line. "Morgan and Rossi have a theory but I don't want them to share it with the rest of us." Rossi glared at the unit chief wide eyed. Why was that? "Instead, I want you to give us facts about Nicolas Escarra. From the interviews with his mother, his priest and Matthew Villa. I want to see if the others will come to the same conclusions. Dave."

'So, he wants me to do the talking,' Rossi thought. He cast a quick glance at Morgan and to his surprise he found the younger man's hands perfectly still, laying flat on the table. Derek was looking straight at him, expectant, like all the others.

Alright then. Rossi inhaled, exhaled and started talking.

"Nicolas and his mother were deeply religious. His father passed away six years ago, when the kid was eight. That you already know. As well as that he stopped going to church a few months to possibly a year ago. Something happened that made him turn away from religion but he never told his mother about it. He hadn't talked to his priest either and apparently, he hadn't confided in his friend. Instead, he was encouraging his friend to confide in him about all kinds of stuff, arguments with the family; problems at school. He was protective of Matthew, defended him against bullies. From what Matthew told us, I didn't get the vibe of a boy who would hang out with the gangers, the way his mother seems to perceive him."

Now was the hard part. Rossi had to try to only speak the facts, no interpretation because he felt Hotch was somehow right. He was convinced that his and Morgan's theory about sexual abuse was dead-on. He'd thought about it before Morgan said it but Morgan had doubts for some reason. If he saw that the others reached the same conclusions, it would most likely solidify this concept in his mind.

"In the days before the murder he was in some sort of turmoil, an inner battle. Matthew didn't spot it until we asked but then it became rather obvious. He was less talkative. And on a Wednesday, the day he was murdered, he announced to Matthew that he was going to talk to  _him_ and tell  _him_  he didn't want it. He didn't say who  _he_  was and they didn't delve into the subject any further than that."

While Rossi talked, he watched the reactions of his colleagues. Emily and Reid were glaring into their files, probably re-reading yesterdays' notes. Emily's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the key sentence and Reid nodded as if he wanted to say, 'that's obvious now'. JJ was looking from Rossi to Hotch, her lips pursed, eyes attentive. Morgan's face was blank as he stared at nothing in particular all the time and Hotch looked at everyone, stealing glances at Morgan more often than not.

Rossi felt like an intruder.

"Emily?" Hotch asked when Rossi finished.

Emily shrugged, "Sexual abuse," she said simply.

Morgan snorted, "Just like that?"

"Oh, c'mon Morgan," she snapped at him and Rossi cringed. Or maybe he was only imagining things? After all, Prentiss and the others had known Morgan longer; they had seen him during all kinds of cases. They would have noticed  _something_ , if there was anything to notice at all. "You have all the classic signs here - he's a loner, has basically only one friend but that friendship is not balanced in give-and-take genus. He doesn't share anything about himself, because he's afraid he won't be understood and at the same time he takes on the role of a confidant - it's one of the coping mechanisms. It's like he's taking on the role of an adult; he doesn't seek help with the adults because he feels like they failed him. His father is dead; his mother is busy because she has to provide for the family. They have been probably drifting apart since the father's death and at some point he met-" there she faltered, suddenly dropped her gaze then tried to cover the odd embarrassment. "-someone. Some . . . mentor." She looked up at Morgan and Rossi felt his stomach squirm. It was obvious that something clicked in her mind right this moment. There must have been a case just like this before; she just hadn't connected the dots the way Hotch already must have. Hotch watched her and Derek almost as if he wanted to strip them to the bare bones. Emily finished very quietly. "A grown-up he thought he could trust and that grown-up . . . exploited him."

"Exactly!" Rossi said very loudly to divert the attention away from Morgan. He could tell the man realized that Emily was onto something and was probably feeling caged. "He stood up to our unsub and was killed for that."

"Actually," Reid observed. "Glen might profile as an abuse victim as well. You wrote here," he indicated the transcript of Hotch's interview with the teacher, "that he used to be an angry child when he'd started high school and he'd had low grades but that he was improving. He may have gotten out of an abusive environment and was just beginning to stand on his own two feet. Do we know which junior high, or which elementary school he attended?"

"I left Kevin a note to check this but he hasn't been in his office yet." Hotch looked at his watch. "We should have his full history. Actually, I'm surprised that we don't."

"Kevin is no Garcia," Emily muttered.

Hotch only shook his head.

"There wasn't any sign of abuse on either of them," Morgan spoke up for the first time. "And while it might be right for Glen if it hadn't been anything recent, although I can't really wrap my head around this, there should have been something on Nick. There wasn't."

"Nick was stabbed," Rossi pointed out.

"That's not what I mean. Abuse is abuse Rossi. We're not talking about substitute of sexual release here, we're talking about actual abuse. It leaves physical evidence."

"Not every kind of abuse," Rossi shrugged, meeting Derek's eyes straight on. "I believe it will all make sense in hindsight."

Derek shook his head, "No. There's nothing to base it on but a random sentence about planning to see someone and to stand up to them, and really this might be about anyone and anything."

"Perhaps," Reid started, straightening up. "However, both Glen and Nick fit certain pattern. We found literally no friends of Glen's. All his relationships were superficial and he had poor contact with both his parents."

"Just because the kid doesn't confide in anyone doesn't mean he's sexually abused!"

"But it helps. Helps the abuser. That's one of the things the abusers look out for as well and the abuse later solidifies a certain pattern of behavior. The kid has no one to talk to - it's almost like a guarantee that he won't expose them. Only about fifteen percent of all cases of childhood molestation is reported, Morgan. It happens for a reason." Reid was on a roll and suddenly everyone who might have an inkling to stop him were too hung up on their own thoughts to interrupt, so he went on spouting statistics. "Seventy five percent of all disclosures are accidental and over thirty percent of abuse victims never talk about those experiences to  _anyone_. This number may actually be greater. Eighty percent of reported abuse victims are girls. However, the estimates are that boys and girls are equally likely to be molested and the difference is simply because boys are more ashamed if it happens to them." He would continue but Prentiss couldn't stand him throwing this at Morgan, of all people.

"It's no shame!" she cut in. "I mean it is a shame on the molester not on a child."

"It's true," Reid tried to defend his point, "but tell that to the-

"Let's stick to the case." Hotch finally regained control of the briefing room. Reid mouthed 'we are sticking to the case' but otherwise stayed quiet while Hotch attempted to summarize their conclusions. "It's not impossible that we are dealing with someone who was molesting both boys. Derek, I understand that you feel it's a stretch but what happens if we profile this unsub as a child molester?

"He profiles as a situational offender," Rossi started as Hotch's phone ringed.

"Hotchner," he barked, everyone's eyes on him. He listened for a while and, "We're on our way!" he clicked the phone shut. "There's another boy missing. It was the police from Columbia Heights and the kid is from their jurisdiction."

 

***

 **A/N:** Reid is not a heartless ass; it was not my intention to portray him this way.

For the sake of this story I decided to take up his Asperger-like characteristics and go with them. See, sometimes he sees things much faster and clearer than the others - patterns, similarities, little details - but sometimes he sees them much later, or doesn't notice them at all and that pertains to people and their emotions. It's not his fault and he's not evil or an ass because of this. It's just how his brain works. Sometimes he simply needs to be TOLD even the most obvious things. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about ;) . . .

***

 **Chapter Seven - Personal Demons**

 

***

 _"By not coming forward (about rape), you make yourself a victim forever"_  ~Kelly McGillis

 

***

"We need to present the profile and we need to do it quick." Hotch was on his feet already, gathering his file. Reid looked up. He was maybe quick at reading and quantifying large numbers but sudden change of plans was not his forte. "Rossi and Prentiss go to Columbia Heights. I want Reid there too, to nail down the geographical profile and JJ - prepare the statement for the press. Morgan and I will go to Fairfax."

"Wait, what?" Morgan countered. "I was in Columbia Heights, I spoke to the police there, you can't just cut me off!"

"I'm not . . ." Hotch paused. Reid gazed from one to the other waiting for the final decision. He needed to know what he would be required to do and alternating orders kind of messed with his comprehension of the situation. He would go to Columbia Heights anyway, would he? Morgan should do what he was told as well, no matter if he liked it or not! "Derek," Hotch said quietly, patiently, "it's likely that he will want to dump the body in the cemetery again. We'll wait for him there."

"What, do we assume he killed the kid already?" Morgan wouldn't take it. "How long has he been missing?

"Less than an hour."

"Then I need to be in Columbia Heights!"

Hotch opened his mouth to respond but was disturbed by a sudden appearance of Kevin Lynch.

"You asked me to get you this as soon as- Am I interrupting something?" The tech gazed around at everyone standing and two men rather aggravated. He stood dangerously close to Hotch and now took a small step back. Reid understood the need to flee perfectly well.

"No," Hotch snatched the papers from Kevin's hand and skimmed them quickly. "Damn it, Lynch! We should have had it the first thing!"

"You didn't ask," Lynch squealed and Emily took a step nearer to the boss.

"What is it?"

"Glen Tolbert lived and attended school in Mount Pleasant! That's right next to Columbia Heights, Fairfax is irrelevant!"

"Does it mean we all go to Columbia Heights?" asked Prentiss.

"No," Hotch gazed at Morgan again, then at Reid - Reid didn't like it one bit - and at Rossi.

"I can handle Columbia Heights," Rossi told him and Reid thought that this was one of those moments he read about so much. A nonverbal communication. Something he sucked at big time. Rossi nodded as if he told Hotch something else than he in-fact said and Hotch acknowledged it with a nod of his own.

"Alright then. Me and Prentiss will head to Fairfax. We'll polish the profile on the phone."

 

***

"This unsub is male, white or Hispanic, between ages thirty and forty five."

"He doesn't stand out in the community on first sight but if you talked to him, you'd realize that he's deeply religious, to the point of trying to convert people to his faith. He gets upset if his religious views are not shared and can get aggressive, if they are openly contradicted."

"He seeks contact with children and may communicate with them easier than with adults. He's unlikely to be a teacher but may work at school in some supporting role. May volunteer in a church, probably a Catholic church."

"He likely doesn't have a family of his own, or if he does, his relationship with his wife and children is deficient. It is possible that the family situation, or some problems at work were the stressor which pushed him to the first murder, so we believe some major change took place in his life about a month ago. Divorce, separation, being fired or even some accusations of sexual molestation of minors. If we find this stressor, we will identify our unsub."

"He may keep tabs on the investigation and that's probably what spooked him into kidnapping Leslie Garth. We believe he hadn't killed the boy and we'll keep searching for him unless proven otherwise but we need to hurry."

"Talk to the people at schools and in churches in the area. Ask in any religious facilities. It's Saturday so people don't have to go to work but maybe someone from the neighborhood will recognize this person. This profile will also be presented to the public, so we need you to set up a tip line and work fast. The clock is ticking."

. . .

This was the profile they were supposed to present to the police in Columbia Heights as Hotch and Prentiss were presenting it in Fairfax. The team didn't get beyond "may volunteer in a church" though.

"Could he be a priest?" a female officer asked. They had already covered the question and they had the answer ready but the woman's superior, Sgt Marks beat them to a response.

"Ellen, for God's sake, will you ever shut up about this?" he spat. "Let the men talk!"

Reid blinked. Something was amiss, both of them were obviously referring to some particular situation involving some specific priest and they both seemed irritated.

"He could be a priest," Morgan nodded, contradicting their earlier assessment, obviously as curious as Reid. "Why are you asking?"

"Oh, there was this incident at Holy Cross on the 17th Street three months ago," the sergeant took to explaining and the officer named Ellen rolled her eyes. "The priest from that church was involved but we _questioned_  him and his testimony  _checked out_." He raised his voice at his colleague.

"Father Charles Trent?" Morgan was on his feet already and when Sgt Marks nodded, surprised, he demanded, "We'd like to see the files. Reid!" he motioned for him to join them but Rossi came right behind as well.

True enough, three months ago a thirteen years old Simon Abel had been severely beaten in the church's yard. Father Charles had testified that he'd heard screams and sounds of commotion and had run out of sacristy only to find the boy laying bloodied in a meadowsweet shrub and a tall black man running away down the street. He had been focused on trying to stop the bleeding and hadn't taken a good look at the offender. Unfortunately Simon had hemophilia and his otherwise non-fatal internal bruising had eventually become the cause of his death. The location of the Holy Cross Church was consistent with the geographical profile Reid was constructing.

"Father Charles is a respected member of our community," the sergeant tried to defend the priest. "I had no reason to doubt his words. In fact I still don't."

"We have to get him here," Morgan said, calm and composed. Even too calm if anyone asked Reid.

He remembered that phrase, 'a respected member of our community' from a year ago in Chicago. He had no doubts Derek remembered it just as well. He wouldn't say 'better', because he was the one with eidetic memory but it must have shaken Morgan to learn that his own mentor turned out to be a child molester and a murderer. Even if he had known from his line of work that this was not impossible, seeing something like that in your own home, place you believed was somehow sacred, surely made an impact.

"It shouldn't be a problem," the sergeant informed them sourly. "They are having a choir practice right about now. Father Charles is the conductor." He looked at the FBI agents not very friendly. "Perhaps you could wait till after the practice as not to frighten the children?"

"Aren't you forgetting that there is one very frightened child out there right now?" asked Rossi and if eyes could burn, the sergeant would be nothing more than a pile of ashes.

The policeman paled suddenly. He became so deathly white that Reid got scared he would collapse right in the middle of the station. Was Rossi's stare of doom really that frightening? The older agent grabbed the policeman's arm. "What?"

"Leslie Garth was supposed to be at that practice," the sergeant breathed out. "He was meeting his friend beforehand and the friend's mother called his parents because he was running late."

" _That_ choir practice?" Rossi inquired, exchanging glances with Morgan. "At  _that_  church?"

"Let's go," Morgan seethed even before the sergeant managed to nod.

"Derek." Rossi placed his hand on his taller, larger and generally more powerful colleague's chest and stopped him dead in his tracks. "You're staying."

"Whoa?-"

"We're only taking him for some additional questioning concerning Nicolas. We have no material proof and we need to get him to confess, Derek. We need him to tell us where Leslie is. We can't afford to fuck it up."

"I know," Morgan muttered.

"Father Charles didn't do it!" the sergeant tried to assure them once more but even he wasn't convinced anymore.

 

***

Hotch wanted to be in the SUV and driving to Columbia Heights the moment he heard from Rossi that they had a suspect. He didn't like Morgan's approach to the case and one careless word could ruin it all! Rossi said he could handle it but he didn't really know Morgan. Not that Hotch felt like he did at this moment.

It was not unusual that Morgan was in opposition. If anyone on the team was skeptic about some approach, it was usually him. But here he was a tad too adamant at proving they were wrong. He was almost irrational in it and Hotch couldn't remember Morgan being irrational.

Well, other that in Buford's case, where he went out of his way to prevent them from finding the truth, even if in consequence he would have taken the punishment for the crimes committed by his very abuser.

Hotch was afraid that he would do something stupid now, but the truth was, they couldn't leave Fairfax just yet - Rossi and Reid were on their way to the church and if Father Charles wasn't there, someone would need to wait for him at the cemetery. They had already cleared it and the surrounding streets from the police, there were only a few undercover agents who would intercept the offender, should he appear.

"Hotch?" he heard a tentative question from the door. Prentiss. "Everything okay?"

He turned away from the window he was staring at, unseeing.

"Waiting is not my best feat."

"I know." She sat at the table and laced her longs fingers. Then unlaced them. Traced the edge of the table. Pulled her hair behind her ear.

"What is it Prentiss?"

"Uh . . ." she fidgeted a little. "I don't really know how to ask this, or even if I should."

"Go ahead." He sat next to her.

"No." She stood up in turn. "I should figure it out by myself." Ever so self-sufficient.

"Does it have something to do with the case?"

"Partially."

"Then-"

"Morgan," she cut in. He didn't understand.

"What about Morgan?"

"Do you think he was abused by Buford?" she blurted out, staring at her feet, trying to dig out a hole in the floor with the tip of her boot.

Hotch didn't know how to respond. Did he think? He knew.

"I'm not really the right person for you to discuss it," he said very softly.

"Who is?"

"Morgan?"

Emily only snorted and shook her head.

"Seriously. Emily, it's his business, I don't feel okay discussing something like that behind his back."

She kept shaking her head as if saying she wouldn't go to the man in question.

"Why not?"

"Have you  _met_  Morgan?"

"True," Hotch chuckled. Trying to talk to that man about anything personal was like pulling teeth. Opening  _that_  can of worms? It would require major surgical skills.

"But I guess your reluctance kind of answers my question," Emily noticed quietly and sat back down. Their eyes met and Hotch saw something strange in hers. Some kind of . . . disbelief, maybe fear. "I just . . ."

"What is it?"

"I can't imagine our Morgan not being able to say 'no' to someone, you know?"

"We have all been children once," it was the only explanation that came to Hotch's mind. Children were so vulnerable. They had all been different way back then.

He was brought back from those less than happy thoughts by his phone ringing. Rossi. Hopefully they had the priest. That would mean they'd be able to go over to Columbia Heights and there was nothing Hotch wanted more than that right now.

 

***

"I think Morgan is taking this a bit too personally," Reid stated out of the blue, half way to the Holy Cross Church.

Rossi cast a glance at him. "Ya think?" So far he didn't have a feeling that Reid knew anything at all about Morgan's probable past and if he did, he hid it rather well. He wondered what the young, sometimes a little too talkative genius would have to say about this.

"Yeah," Reid pouted, thoughtful. "I guess he somehow connected this with the case we had in Chicago a year ago. Carl Buford, Morgan's former mentor murdered three teenagers. The last victim was last seen with Morgan and the police accused  _him_  of all the murders. Made no sense but they were quite adamant at protecting the 'upstanding member of their community', as they referred to Buford. I guess it must have been quite a shock to Morgan as well to find out that the man he looked up to was a criminal."

Rossi snorted and shook his head not saying anything. He let Reid interpret this gesture however he wanted. What it really depicted was surprise at how completely clueless Reid was about the whole thing. However, in all fairness it was better to leave it like that. Reid had no business knowing about Morgan's trouble and as far as Rossi knew, Morgan wouldn't want to share this about himself with the kid. Or anyone but well, it was too late for that.

 

***

 **Chapter Eight - Twisted Perception**

 

***

 _"The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend"_  ~Robertson Davies

 

***

JJ was not a profiler. She couldn't read the murderers' minds the way her colleagues did, she couldn't see the trails in the wilderness of human soul. But she had a heart and she sometimes thought she could read her friends better than any of them. She knew that Buford had hurt Morgan the moment she saw the offender's face, she didn't even need to see Morgan himself.

She knew the toll the current case was taking on him. He sat on the table in the conference room where they set up their temporary headquarters and looked so desolate. He was a man of action, he should chase a suspect, tackle him down, kick his ass and instead he was reduced to sitting and waiting.

"You know," she spoke softly from the doorway, "Rossi was right." She meant him staying behind.

"I know." Morgan stood up, walked to the map using this as an excuse to turn away from her and folded his arms on his chest. "I won't interrogate him either," he added in a barely audible voice.

She didn't say anything; there really was no need to.

Derek inhaled and exhaled and spoke again, "Maybe I should back out of this case entirely."

She didn't want him to do that. She couldn't understand how it would help the case, or him. "It's almost over," she reminded. "They're bringing him here."

"He's got a perfect alibi." Derek turned to her, spread his arms. "He was at the church all morning! Somebody else took Leslie." He walked the length of the room.

"He was at the church all morning  _alone_ ," JJ pointed out. "For all we know he's laying."

"We don't have a warrant to search the church or the buildings." Every Derek's gesture betrayed his anxiousness, the way he moved his hand over his head, the way he walked, seven steps down the length of the table, seven steps up. He didn't even attempt to pretend anymore and JJ couldn't remember seeing him this exposed before. "Can you imagine a judge giving such a warrant on a church? He was given this parish four years ago, after there'd been complaints filed on him in Iowa. There was no case, charges were dropped and he was simply reassigned."

"Derek-"

"I can't believe we hadn't noticed . . ." He stopped at the window. "I spoke with him!"

"He's been doing this for years."

"He won't confess." JJ was afraid he might smash the window, judging by how strung up he was.

"Rossi will make him confess," she said with more certainty than she felt. She was skilled at feigning certainty. "Hotch is on his way to the judge, we will get that warrant too." It seemed to actually calm him down a bit, maybe the words or maybe simply her support, simply that she was there and that she understood.

Another ten minutes passed and again Derek started pacing the small conference room like a caged animal. When the door to the station opened and Rossi came through with the priest, he stood like rooted to the spot, his fists clenched at his sides. JJ felt that if he were too close to the priest, someone might get punched.

Father Charles was led away to the interrogation room and Rossi came to talk to Derek.

"You want to oversee the interview?" he asked.

"Yes," Derek choked out through a clenched throat.

"Are you sure? This may not be nice."

"You're gonna question him?"

"Yes. If Hotch comes, he may join in but I think I'll wear him down."

"What approach?"

"I'll try to disorient him. He's been lying about Abel, he's gotta make a mistake somewhere."

They stood motionless for a few seconds, Morgan breathing hard, like after a fight.

"Rossi, I want to see," he finally said in his calm, most reliable tone. "We need to have all the clues to find Leslie and I may notice something."

JJ smiled. A few minutes ago he wanted to back out but here he was back in the saddle, ready to fight for the minors. A true BAU warrior, like the rest of them. JJ had faith that he would get through this alright.

***

This was one of the most difficult things Derek had ever had to endure. No, not true, there were more difficult moments, many of them. He was just that good at detaching himself from them.

Rossi came into the interrogation room and sat opposite from Father Charles Trent, who faced the large two-way mirror. He didn't look evil and Derek found himself surprised that he even thought he should. There were so many unsubs and most of them didn't look it. Despite that Derek felt profound revulsion toward him.

Father Charles was calm and that was a first give-away. If he were not guilty he would most likely be agitated and surprised why he was in an interrogation room not at the detective's desk in the main room of the station. His calm was his shield and if he needed to shield himself, that meant he was at fault.

Rossi was flipping through his notes for a moment, arranging them. Father Charles watched him, nothing else.

"You see how calm he is?" Reid, next to Morgan, asked in a soft voice.

"I do."

Finally Rossi started asking.

"You told us Nicolas Escarra came to you last Sunday. What were you talking about?"

The priest wasn't surprised. He was brought here, after all, under the pretense of helping with the investigation of Escarra's murder.

"Yes," he responded. "He and his mother came to the sacristy right after the mass. Maria wanted him to talk to me but he didn't really talk. Didn't say anything in fact. I was the one talking." A short grimace run through his face. Like anger but it was brief, blink-and-you-miss-it brief. "I was telling him to have faith in our Lord Jesus, that Jesus would deliver him from sin."

"What sin was he committing?"

Father Charles glared at Rossi with a mixture of contempt and disgust. Then he blinked and the passion was gone.

"He was straying away from the Lord."

Rossi kept his pace. He pulled the photograph of Glen Tolbert out of his file and placed it on the table in front of the priest. "Do you know this boy?" He pushed it a little toward the interrogated man.

Father Charles appeared puzzled for a moment but then his gaze fell on the photograph and he connected the question with the item in front of him. He blinked, his breath caught for a moment. He recognized Glen. Then he took a deep breath and looked up calm again, but his calm was brittle now.

"Looks familiar," he shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Didn't he use to sing in your choir?" Rossi leaned forward a little.

The priest stared him down. He was getting agitated, the strategy was already working, after only one mislead.

"Maybe," he seethed. "There's so many boys. Even right now I have over thirty of them."

"Do you see how he's moving his hands," Reid whispered next to Derek. Indeed, although the man's palms were on his lap, under the table - his arms, visible above the surface were shifting as if he was, maybe, wriggling his fingers. Derek felt his own heart speed up. Rossi would nail him! He would get all the information, he would get the man to confess, damn it! Derek was even more wired than the priest.

They missed Dave's next question but it must have been about Leslie not showing up to today's choir practice. It threw the priest off again, judging by his expression. This time he didn't manage to school it quickly enough, there was fear in his eyes, replaced by feigned compassion

"Yes, that's tragic," he said like a robot, a pre-defined line of concern and sympathy. "I pray for his soul."

"Why? Do you think he's dead already?"

The priest's Adam's apple bobbed. "Oh, no!" he stuttered. "Of course not! Just-" Derek could almost see gears in his head turning as he tried to come up with a suitable explanation. God, was he glad that he wasn't inside with Rossi now. He would strangle the man with his bare hands, right there! "I really, truly want his soul to be saved."

"Derek?" Reid placed his cold fingers on Morgan's wrist. "Calm down."

Derek didn't waste time to answer. He absorbed Rossi's next words, spoken in a quiet, kind voice.

"What about his body? Can it be saved?"

"That's up to the Lord. If the Lord chooses to absolve him of his sins, he will live."

Derek was really grateful for Reid's hand on his now. He might still strangle the wretched dick. He might get up, burst into the interrogation room, and strangle the bastard if there wasn't for Reid's cold, cool, calm fingers on his wrist.

"Did you perform a burial of Simon Abel?" Rossi changed the subject once more.

"Who?" Father Charles didn't manage to stop the question escaping his lips.

"Simon Abel," Rossi repeated. "Don't tell me you forgot the murder that happened on the doorstep of your church!"

"No," the priest breathed out. "Of course I haven't forgotten. I remember Simon." He was pale, he was breathing fast. He was almost-almost there.

"What rite was it? Exequiae or Anointing of the Sick?"

"Exaquiae, of course, Anointing-" he stopped abruptly and Derek feared that he connected this question with those other murders, that he would go defensive again, that it would be a setback or worse, that all would be lost but no. The priest's face crumpled, softened. "When he was at the hospital," he started softly, "and the doctors weren't very hopeful . . . he had hemophilia, you know? He wasn't supposed to . . . His mother wanted to be sure that the soul of her son would go to the Lord and it was too late for Confession, he was unconscious. I-I did perform the Anointing of the sick. It saved his soul." Derek could swear there were tears in this bastard's eyes.

"How did it save his soul?" Rossi's voice was so gentle Derek almost believed he sincerely wanted to understand the priest's motivations.

Apparently the priest felt the same way. "It absolved him of his sins!" he replied.

"He was a sinner?"

"Of course!"

"Such young boy?"

"They are  _all_  sinners!"

Rossi paused. Father Charles was bent forward, full of anger and despair.

"What the?-" Reid breathed out. He took away his hand and stepped toward the mirror. Derek joined him tentatively.

"You mean  _we_  are all sinners, don't you?" Rossi asked, still inhumanly quiet. Damn, how could this man be so calm in front of such atrocity? Derek remembered he could be calm too, when he needed that to nail the offender. When had he lost that ability? Perhaps when he allowed this case to hit too close to home. Perhaps when he forgot all about his defenses and allowed his compassion for those boys to get out of hand. He needed his control back, he needed to not-feel.

"No!" the priest denied vehemently. "No,  _they_  are." Oh, how Derek hated him now!

"The boys?"

"Yes!"

"I think I know-" Reid started in a whisper but Derek shushed him. He needed to hear Rossi.

"But aren't they too young-"

"You don't understand. Nobody does! They are dirty!"

"Why?"

"All young boys are dirty."

What a bastard! . . .

"How so?"

"You don't understand."

Damn, fucking bastard!

"Then explain it to me."

"Oh, no, no, no. You won't hear it from me!" The priest folded his arms on his chest. He was almost smiling, a smug, devilish smile, but he was exposed, defenseless. Rossi had him, he had to, he would . . .

"Derek?" Reid was glaring at Morgan again. "What?-"

"He's-" Morgan's throat was so constricted words were barely getting through. " _He's_  dirty!"

"You know, he must have been subjected to the same drill-"

"I don't care! Okay? It doesn't give him the right-"

"Easy." The cold fingers on his hand again. "Easy." Damn it, Derek never intended to show Reid such emotional outburst. Easy. Control.

"I'm good."

"Tell me something else then." Rossi gathered his papers in a neat pile. Was the interrogation over? They didn't have the information yet! What was Rossi's plan now? Was he simply going to ask? This didn't fit. What was the question? "You were a young boy too, once. Were you a sinner?"

Like Reid said. Rossi came to the same conclusions and true, they were valid. This could be their key, could it?

"Yes," the priest bowed his head. "I was." Derek didn't feel any compassion toward him. None at all.

"But then you stopped-" Rossi leaned to him.

Father Charles looked up, tears shining in his eyes. "I understood the wrongness of my ways. Good Lord Jesus showed me the right path."

"Do you think he can show it to the other boys too?"

"Some of them."

"Only some . . ."

The tears trickled down the priest's cheeks as he nodded silently.

"What about the others? They can't be . . . absolved of their sin?"

Father Charles wiped his eyes. "They can."

"There is a way . . ."

"There is a way. Yes, there is a way for their souls to avoid burning in eternal hell."

"Simon Abel's mother showed you that way, am I right? The rite of Anointing of the Sick."

The priest nodded again. This was insane! So very, very insane . . . Derek felt tears on his cheeks as well.

"But there is a problem, isn't there, Father?" Rossi continued. "It can't be performed on a healthy person. They have to be dying, or . . . dead."

"Their souls' lives are eternal. And I always,  _always_  give them the opportunity to repent, to reconcile with the Lord. If they understand . . . they can be absolved." There! They had the confession, did they?

"Did Leslie Garth repent?"

Leslie . . .

"Yes."

He was still alive! Had to be . . .

"Did you absolve him?"

"Only Jesus can absolve our sins."

"Through a priest. Did you take his confession?"

"Not yet. I should go, I told him I would come back later and take his confession. I should go." Father Charles got to his feet but Rossi moved between him and the door.

"Where is he?" he asked putting his hands against the priest's chest

"I-"

"Tell us where he is and we'll bring him to you."

"I don't-"

"You know there's no other way-"

Derek couldn't listen to that any longer. "Call me as soon as you'll have the address," he told Reid, going for the door.

"But . . ." Reid stammered. "Will he? . . ."

"Yes, Reid, he will. And I will be in the SUV by then. Just give me a call."

He run through the police station and through the parking lot and sure enough his cell rung the moment he was opening the car door.

They knew where Leslie was.

***

 **Epilogue**

 

***

Leslie Garth was found alive and very, very frightened. He had been forced by Father Charles to admit that he had been ugly, dirty and sinful. Rossi hoped the boy would some day be able to forget the lesson drilled into him at a threat of losing his life. That he would one day believe none of what happened to him was his fault. That he was pure and innocent and that innocence was stolen from him by someone very, very wrong. That he would not repeat the cycle of abuse.

Rossi knew this was possible. He had seen that. He could see that every day and even though it hurt, he was glad he found out about it.

On Tuesday morning in the BAU headquatres at Quantico, Rossi looked around searching for a familiar figure of the tall, dark-skinned agent. There he was, getting himself coffee. Alone.

"Have you gotten some rest over this extended weekend?" Rossi asked reaching out for his cup.

"I hardly slept if that's what you're asking. But I'm glad Hotch gave us Monday off."

"You know Derek, this man, the priest - he was deeply hurt in his childhood or puberty. That's why he was hurting others. Maybe he didn't have the resources or the strength to grow beyond that."

"I . . ." Derek shook his head, not looking at his colleague. He sighed. "I can't bring myself to understand him, Rossi. Don't ask me to."

"I don't. What I'm saying is that I admire people who are strong enough to grow beyond their hurt. To change their pain into something good. Like Nicolas Escarra. He didn't have much chance to show it I know, before his life was caught short, but . . . what he was doing for Matthew? It counts."

"Yeah."

"You may ask Reid for the exact statistics but I can tell you that more people who had been sexually abused grow up to be compassionate and caring than pass on the hurt they experienced. Most of them are passive in their compassion and care because even in adulthood they are afraid but there are those few unique, great people who take matters into their own hands and fight to rid the world of that hurt. Those are the heroes."

Rossi didn't want Morgan to respond to that. He knew that it was the only time they'd ever address the issue and he only wanted to say what he had in mind. Really, nothing more. He patted Morgan on the arm and left him standing there, stunned. If he felt a bit of satisfaction it was not only because he had Derek Morgan figured out.

 

***

.end

 

***

 **A/N:**  I hope you enjoyed this story. If you got through to the end, it probably means that you did. :) I would be very happy if you told me about it now. Please, reviews are what makes writing worthwhile. This is one of those stories I spent a lot of time plotting and editing and revising and I eventually posted it when I was sure it was complete. Then, it was not appreciated, which made me kind of sad. So, any comment here and now, will be a special bonus for me. :)

 


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